PS 2684 
.B7 
1882 
Copy 1 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Shelf TBsl- 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



BRUSHWOOD. 



T. BUCHANAN READ. 



ILLUSTRATED 

FROM DESIGNS BY FREDERICK DIELMAN. 



OFCc 



'V>VcOPYRiGHf' 



No, 



c. 



18 1881 



PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

LONDON: 16 SOUTHAMPTON ST., STRAND. 
1882. ~ 






:e>i 



Copyright, 
By J. B. LipiM NCKTT & Co. 



L I P P 1 K r 11 T T'8 
P K KHN. 



BRUSH WO O D. 




/^AN a weary slope of Apennine, 

At sober dusk of day's decline, 
Out of the solemn solitude 
Of Vallonibrosa's antique wood, 
A withered woman, tanned and bent," 
Bearing her bundled brushwood went, 
Poising it on her palsied head, ^^ 
As if in penance for prayers unsaid. 




"T TER (lull chocks channelled were with tears, 

Shed in the storms of eighty years; 
Her wild hair fell in gusty flow, 
White as the foamy Itrook below : 
Still toiled she with her load alone. 
With feeble feet but steadfast will, 
To gain her little home, that shone 
Like a dreary lantern on the hill. 



rp^HE mountain child, no toil could tame, 

With lighter load l)eside hur came, \^^ 
Spake kindly, but its 

accents fond '^-^ j^^ 

Were lost, — soon lost on 

the heights beyond. 




Ilor brnsli-load sliadowing her face, 
Her upriglit figure full of grace, : 
Like those tall pines 

■whose only boughs 
Are gathered round their^ 

duskv brows : — ^ 

Singing, she waved her 

hand, " Good-night," 
And round the mountain 

passed from sight. 




^ I ^HERE climbed the laborers from their toil, 

Brown as their own Italian soil; 
Like Satyrs, some in goatskin snits, — 
Some bearing home tlie scanty fruits 
Of harvest work, — the swinging flasks 
Of oil or wine, or little casks. 
Under which the dull mule went 
Cheered with its bell, and the echoes sent 
From others on the higher height, 
Saying to the vale, " Good-night," — 
"Good-night;*' — and still the withered dame 
Slowly staggered on the same. 





TITEKP], astride of his 
brayina- l>east, 

A brown monk came, 
^^ ^^'\\ and tlien a priest; 
Each telling to the shadowy air, 
Perchance, liis "^re 3Iaria" prayer; 
For the sky was full of vesper showers. 
Shook from the many convent towers, 
Wliich fell into the woman's brain 
Like dew upon an arid plain. 




These pious men be- 
side her rode, — 
She crossed herself be- 
neath her load, 
v}X ' .\s best she could, — and 
so " Good-night,"' 
And they rode up- 
ward out of 
siffht. 



^ 



~l row far, how very far it seemed, 

To where that starry taper gleamed, 
Placed by her grandchild on the sill 
Of the cottao-e window on the hill ! 




Ma?iy a parent heart before, 
Laden till it could bear no more, 
Has seen a heavenward light that smiled, 
And knew it placed there by a child : — 
A lono^-gone child, whose anxious face 
(4azed toward them down the deeps of space, 
Loiio-ing for the loved to come 
To the quiet of that home.. 



OTEEPER and rougher grew the road, 
Harder and heavier o-rew the load: 



Her lieart beat like a weio-ht of stone 



Against her breast. A sigh and moan 
Mingled with prayer escaped her lips 
Of sorrow, o'er sorrowing night's eclipse. 
" Of all who pass nie by," she said, 
" There is never one to lend nie aid ; 
Could I but gain yon wayside shrine. 
There would I rest this load of mine, 
And tell my sacred rosary through. 
And tr}' what patient prayer would do." 



A GAIN" she heard the toiling tread 

Of one who climbed that Avaj, — and said, 
"I will be bold, though I should see 
A monk or priest, or it should be 
The awful abbot, at whose nod 
The frighted people toil and plod: 
I'll ask his aid to j'onder place, 
"Where I may breathe a little space, 
And so regain my home." He came, 
And, halting by the ancient dame. 
Heard her brief story and request. 
Which moved the pity in his breast; 
And so he straightway took her load, 
Toiling beside her up the road. 



Until, with heart tliat overflowed, 

She begged him Uiy her bundled sticks 



''^^^^jm^_ CO down he set her 
brushwood freight 




^^ . '» 1, ^ Close at the feet of 



^'^ 4^^ the crucitix. 



X> 




\ Against the wayside 

cross, and straight 
, She bowed her palsied 
head to greet 
And kiss the sculptured 
Saviour's feet; 



And then and there she tokl her grief, 

In broken sentences and brief. 

And now the memory o'er her came 

Of days blown out, like a taper flame, 

Never to he relighted, when, 

From many a summer liill and glen, 

She culled the loveliest blooms to shine 

About the feet of this same shrine; 

But now, where once her flowers were gay, 

Naught but the barren brushwood lay! 

She wept a little at the thought, 

And prayers and tears a quiet brought, 

Until anon, relieved of pain, 

She rose to take her load again. 



But lo ! the bundle of dead wood 
Had burst to blossom ! and now stood 
Dawning upon her marvelling sight, 
Filling the air with odorous light! 

rr^IIEN spake her traveller-friend: "Dear Soul, 

Thy perfect faith hath made thee whole ! 
I am the Burthen-Bearer, — I 
Will never pass the o'erladen by. 
My feet are on the mountain steep; 
They wind through valleys dark and deep; 
They print the hot dust of the plain, 
And walk the billows of the main. 
Wlierever is a load to bear. 



My willing shoulder still is there! 

Thy toil is done!'" He took her hand, 

And led her through a May-time land; 

Where round her pathway seemed to wave 

Each votive flower she ever gave 

To make her favorite altar hright, 

As if the angels, at their hlight. 

Had borne them to the fields of blue, 

Where, planted 'mid eternal dew, 

They bloom, as witnesses arrayed 

Of one on earth who toiled and prayed. 




